12
THE BEST PART ABOUT RETURNING to Dierenpark was the joy on Pieter’s face when Sophie appeared at nine o’clock on the roof to check on the weather station. He was recording data in a notebook balanced on his knees when she stepped onto the widow’s walk.
“You’re back!” he shouted, startling a pair of sparrows perched on the turret. The notebook tumbled to the planking as he raced to her for a quick hug. “I was afraid my father scared you away for good.”
That was precisely what I feared, too. “Of course I came back. Show me how you’ve been getting on.”
Pieter’s voice was confident as he showed her his notebook, and she was right to have trusted him with this task. His smile was genuine as he closed the covers on the thermometer and hygrometers.
“It’s been really nice, especially since my father has been too sick to leave his room. Grandpa comes and helps me with my readings, and sometimes we play cards with the bodyguards.” His shoulders sagged a bit. “But my father is better now, so all that has to stop.”
“You didn’t see your father at all while he was recovering?” Quentin Vandermark wasn’t the easiest person to deal with, but visiting the sick was a basic tenet of Christian charity, and it wasn’t right for a man to suffer in lonely isolation.
“He stayed in his room the whole time, but he’s better now. Last night at dinner, he kept asking what I want to be when I grow up. I think he wants me to be an architect like him. I used to want that, but it would be scary if I had to work with him all the time.”
“Has he ever said he wants you to be an architect?”
“No. He says I can be whatever I want, so long as I never become an ‘idol rich.’ I don’t even know what that means, but he always says it like it’s the worst thing in the world. Does it mean when rich people pray to something?”
She smiled, doing her best not to make light of his confusion between idol and idle. “Your father doesn’t want you to be idle. I-D-L-E. Idle means lazy. Without a purpose. Some people are so wealthy they don’t need to work, and if they don’t have anything meaningful to do with their lives, they drift. I think that’s what your father means when he says he doesn’t want you to become one of the idle rich.”
“Oh. Well, I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up.”
Sophie had always known what she wanted. The craving to be a wife and a mother was sometimes so bad it felt like a physical ache. It hadn’t happened for her yet, and she was beginning to fear it never would, which was why her paltry contributions at the weather station were so vital to her sense of purpose. If she died tomorrow, only her father and the anonymous team of meteorologists at the Weather Bureau would miss her.
She shook away that gloomy thought and smiled down at Pieter. “When are you happiest?”
The immediate response underscored how deep the rift between Pieter and his father had grown. She drew him to a bench overlooking the river, letting the gentle breeze soothe her as she scrambled for the right thing to say.
“I know your father loves you, even if sometimes he has a hard time saying so, but he showed it when he rescued you from the bees, right?”
“He only did that because he had to.”
“He did it because he loved you,” she corrected him. “It’s because he loves you that he sets rules and teaches you how to live by them.”
“But he’s so scary. I try, but when I do things wrong or make mistakes, he always catches me at it. Or I get afraid, and he gets mad at me all over again. I’m never afraid of Grandpa.”
Unfortunately, she knew exactly what Pieter must be feeling. Wasn’t she afraid merely at the prospect of seeing Quentin again? His temper could be so quick and cutting.
She reached over to finger-comb a lock of Pieter’s hair that ruffled in the breeze. “My religion teaches me that we must love one another . . . even when it’s hard. It’s easy to love your grandpa because he is so kind to you, but everyone has goodness and humanity in them. You aren’t required to like everything your father does, but you need to be respectful. Look for the good in him, and the love will follow.”
“What about the men who kidnapped me last summer?” Pieter challenged. “I could never love them. They kept me in a dark closet and hardly ever let me out. One of them used to fire off a pistol right next to my ear, just to make me cry.”
She blanched at the image. When Jesus had commanded them to love one another, had he been speaking about that man with the pistol? How could anyone see something worth loving in such a hateful man? She closed her eyes and opened her heart.
“I don’t know why that man was so mean to you,” she finally said. “For some reason, making a rich boy cry made him feel better about himself. Perhaps he was once terribly wounded as a child, and it twisted him somehow. He can’t hurt you anymore, so perhaps if you can find it in your heart to work toward forgiving him, it will make you feel better. Only a very strong person will have that kind of character, but I think you can do it, Pieter.”
Pieter’s expression was a combination of hope warring with skepticism. “I don’t know, Miss Sophie.”
She spoke in her kindest tone. “How do you think the bees felt when you pushed their home over?”
He flinched at the memory. “They were mad, but I didn’t want to hurt them. I just wanted to hit something because my father was so mean.”
“I know you didn’t mean to hurt the bees, but you did,” she said gently. “Sometimes cruelty begets more cruelty, and that’s what happened when you took your anger out on the bees. The funny thing is that love works the same way. When you try to love, or at least understand your enemies, I think you will be surprised at the way the world looks a little brighter.”
She paused to gather her thoughts. She was speaking brave words, but she was equally guilty of assuming the worst about Quentin Vandermark. She had never witnessed anything braver than when he ran toward those bees to carry Pieter to safety. It was shameful, but at that moment, Sophie had been too frightened to move. She stood frozen in place as Quentin staggered away from the hives, and she only leapt into motion when he was well away from the swarm of bees.
He didn’t make it easy to see his better side, but she was as guilty as Pieter of overlooking Quentin’s finer points, and she needed to look deeper.
Sophie took extra care in preparing Quentin’s lunch. She smiled as she whisked a little cream into the fresh pea soup simmering on the stove. Made with chopped leaks and simmered in a rich chicken stock, the soup was a vibrant green shade that always seemed cheerful to Sophie.
“I would be happy to slice the bread,” Mr. Gilroy said, nodding to the loaf of rosemary bread cooling on the windowsill. It had been over an hour since she’d taken it from the oven, and it could be sliced now.
“That’s very kind of you.” It was important for everything to be perfect today. It was irrational, but when she was successful in the kitchen, she felt like she was living up to her calling. Mr. Gilroy seemed to sense her need to succeed today, and he’d been so helpful all morning—fetching ice, mincing herbs, and now he sliced the rosemary bread with the skill of a professional chef.
“Have you ever worked in a kitchen before?” she asked, spooning out a wedge of herb butter into a small dish to accompany the bread.
“I’ve done a bit of everything over the years,” Mr. Gilroy said modestly but didn’t elaborate as he stacked the still-warm bread on a plate.
She didn’t press him for more information. The soup would cool quickly now that it was in the bowl. She placed it beside the bread and a dish of plump strawberries she’d picked from the garden only a few minutes earlier. Holding the kitchen door for Mr. Gilroy as he carried the tray out, she wished she had as much confidence in her ability to be kind toward Quentin as she did in making a simple bowl of pea soup.
Quentin wasn’t going to succumb to temptation. The rest of his household might be irrationally enthralled by Sophie’s cooking, but food was nothing more than nourishment, a combination of proteins and starches to fuel the body. Evolution had designed man to appreciate different flavors and textures in order to ensure proper nutrition.
And yet he knew the instant his breakfast tray was delivered this morning that she was back. Why did oatmeal taste so delicious simply because it came out of a pot stirred by Sophie van Riijn? The housekeeper had been making their oatmeal for the past week, and it had been fine. Hot, edible . . . fine, but nothing like what Sophie made. He had tried to analyze the flavors and textures of the oatmeal to pinpoint a reason it was so extraordinary. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what she did to make it taste so good, and he sent the breakfast tray back after two bites.
But lunch was another matter. He was working in the library when Mr. Gilroy delivered the tray, and the scent beckoned from across the room. He couldn’t starve to death merely from an irrational refusal to eat Sophie’s cooking. Grabbing his cane, he limped over to the table. It was the scent of the bread that summoned him, but his eyes were riveted on the soup, a bright green bowl of fresh pea soup with a little swirl of cream on the top. He leaned over to sniff.
It didn’t smell extraordinary. Just a simple bowl of soup. He lowered himself into a chair, dipped a spoon into the soup, and lifted it to his lips.
An explosion of flavor filled his mouth. It was creamy and soothing and rich and hearty and tasted like every sun-filled day on a grassy mountainside. He closed his eyes, trying to dissect the flavors, but it was hopeless. He swallowed and dipped his spoon in for a second time. And a third. He was going for a fourth when he set down the spoon and paused, trying to figure out why a sense of well-being flooded him. It was just a bowl of pea soup, for pity’s sake!
He reached for the note Gilroy had slipped onto the lunch tray, scanning it quickly. As always, Gilroy could be counted on for accuracy and detail. The butler’s precise handwriting listed every activity Sophie had engaged in since entering the house at ten minutes before six o’clock this morning. But all Quentin cared about was the recipe for the soup that Mr. Gilroy had watched her prepare. Freshly shelled peas, chicken stock, some cream, a dash of lemon juice, chopped leeks, a few chives, and salt. Seven ingredients. No magic spice or exotic techniques. Seven simple ingredients found in any kitchen, and yet any king would pawn his firstborn for a bowl of this soup.
He tasted the soup again, closing his eyes to focus on the texture and flavor. There was nothing extraordinary about the ingredients, but the combination transcended the ordinary. He took another bite, then reached for the still-warm bread and the dish of butter. The creamy butter melted into the bread before he could draw the knife away.
He took a bite, thrilled and annoyed that it tasted as good as it smelled. He clenched his hand into a fist, swallowed the bread, then shouted. “Gilroy!” He’d always found houses with bell-pulls for servants presumptuous, but they would be a useful addition to this house. He couldn’t afford to stress his leg by hopping up and down to summon guards, and his throat was going hoarse fast.
The ever-present agreeable expression was on the butler’s face when he arrived. “Yes, sir?”
“Get her in here,” he growled. There was no need to specify who he wanted to see, for Sophie was the only person who seemed uniquely capable of working her way beneath his composure and unsettling his carefully won stability.
Three minutes later, Sophie stood before him, still wearing an apron and wiping her hands on a towel. She glanced nervously at the meal spread out on the table, most of it still remaining.
“Was something wrong with lunch, sir?”
Without a word, he handed her Gilroy’s note and pointed to the bottom of the page. “Mr. Gilroy neglected to fully capture the recipe for your pea soup, or perhaps he overlooked a step in the cooking process. What did he miss?”
Her pretty face screwed up as she scanned the note, turning it back and forth to read both sides of the densely written text that recounted all of her movements in the house this morning.
“What is this?” she asked, confusion heavy in her voice. “Was he spying on me again?”
“Of course he was spying. I warned you about him weeks ago.”
“I thought he was just trying to help! He seemed so nice . . .”
Honestly, she shouldn’t have been allowed to leave the nursery if she was this naïve. “Miss van Riijn, I asked you a purely factual question. Please overcome your dismay that Mr. Gilroy continues in his true calling as an accomplished spy and tell me what he overlooked while reproducing this recipe.”
“What makes you think he got it wrong?”
Because it was impossible for seven ordinary ingredients to combine into this sublime experience of culinary perfection. “He did. It must have been some kind of seasoning. Was it sage?”
“No,” she said, amusement beginning to dance in her pretty blue eyes.
“Some kind of special peas?”
She shook her head. “You’re not going to be able to guess. In fact, I’m not even sure you would believe me if I told you.”
He narrowed his eyes, savoring the thrill of competition that surged through him. “What makes you think I’m too dim-witted to guess what’s in this soup?”
“Because you believe the entire world operates on rational scientific principles, and that is a very limiting quality, Mr. Vandermark. Sometimes there are things science can’t explain.”
A reluctant smile began tugging on one corner of his mouth. He tamped it down. “Which rules of chemistry, physics, or gravity does your pea soup violate?”
“If I could answer that question, I’d be limiting myself to your own narrow view of the world,” she said with a bright smile.
By heaven, sometimes he really liked this woman. “What’s in the soup, Miss van Riijn?” he pressed.
“You won’t believe me,” she predicted. “And you’ll probably laugh at me, too.”
“Maybe. Quit stalling and tell me what’s in the soup.”
It took her forever to parse her answer, looking mildly embarrassed as a gorgeous flush spread across the soft ivory of her cheeks. “It’s not an ingredient, but a technique,” she finally said. “I love cooking, but more importantly, I love sharing food and serving people. When a person truly loves what they are doing, I think it shows. People can sense that in the meals I serve.”
“Love,” he said, struggling to keep the mirth from his voice. “You are suggesting that love is the mysterious ingredient that makes this soup so good?”
“Didn’t I say you would laugh?” She met his gaze squarely even though it looked like she was trying not to laugh herself.
The most astounding thing was that he knew she believed every word she’d just said. She was too transparent and earnest to be fibbing.
He covered his mouth to hide the twisting of his lips. Despite the absurdity of her assertion, it was also charming and delightful, and the irrational attraction he had for her grew each time she came within his line of sight. “I have traveled the entire world, and I’ve never met anyone quite like you. Love,” he repeated, his laughter finally impossible to control. “Sophie, I’m glad you love what you do, because this soup is delicious and you’re the best cook I’ve ever had.”
For once, her ridiculous idealism didn’t annoy him because, quite frankly, he was famished and the soup was amazing.
“There is something I wanted to speak to you about,” she said, a hint of hesitation in her voice. He swallowed the last of his soup but was immediately on guard. She was probably about to ask for an increase in salary after his lavish praise of her cooking.
“It’s about Pieter,” she said.
He set down the bowl and gestured for her to sit at the table opposite him. She seemed reluctant, but after a moment’s hesitation, she pulled out the chair and sat. “Go on,” he coaxed.
“Pieter did the work for the Weather Bureau while I was gone. He didn’t want to do it, but I leaned on him, and he finally agreed. He completed the task every morning without prompting and on time.”
“I would expect no less.”
She tried not to let exasperation leak into her voice. “It took a lot of courage for him to volunteer his services for the Weather Bureau. He did so with no help or words of praise from you. Don’t you think you might tell him you are proud of him? That he is doing a good job? That you love him and are pleased with how desperately he wants to make a meaningful contribution to the world?”
Annoyance began to take root. For the past week, he hadn’t stepped outside his room because he feared the sight of his swollen face would upset Pieter. “You have no standing to criticize how I raise my son.”
“Pieter is afraid of you, did you know that? You can’t raise a child like he is a soldier in the army.”
“I’m not raising a child, I’m raising a man,” he snapped. “It takes more than a little love sprinkled over a cooking pot to do that. And why a childless woman who’s never been able to keep a man thinks she is qualified to criticize my parenting is beyond me.”
She wasn’t so friendly now. Her motions were stiff and efficient as she placed the cover over the empty bowl of soup and lifted the lunch tray. “Why do you want me to be as dark and cynical as you? Why are you so determined to snuff out whatever light and goodness is in the world?”
“Wishing the world could be like the fairy tales in your storybooks won’t make it so, Miss van Riijn.”
Sophie’s chin was tilted high as she carried the tray to the door. “I’m not going to retaliate to your meanness, because I do my best to be kind to every person I encounter. That may seem small to a person like you, but trust me, it isn’t always easy. No matter how awful a person is, above all, I always try to be kind.”
The kind woman slammed the door on her way out.
Sophie’s questions plagued him all night long. Why do you want me to be as dark and cynical as you?
She was right. It shamed him, but he wanted to dim her happiness. Her effusive cheerfulness scraped against the raw, painful wounds in his body and spirit. She made him feel like cheap base metal compared to her luminous blend of gold and silver. Sophie showed only kindness and compassion to every person in this household, and all he did was launch pointed barbs in her direction, testing to see when she would lose her temper and break.
She wasn’t breaking. Maybe it was time to drop his victory-through-venom strategy and try to comport himself like a civilized human being. One who had a beating heart, however sluggish and unworthy though it be. His self-loathing was his own problem, and he needed to swallow it back and become the kind of father Pieter deserved.
Sophie had been right in her accusations about Pieter. Mostly right, anyway. What she didn’t understand was that it wasn’t spite or disappointment or meanness that drove him to push Pieter so hard. It was fear.
If Quentin died, there would be no one to raise Pieter to manhood. Nickolaas was too old and irrational to do the job properly. Portia would have been an exceptional mother, but she was long dead, so the responsibility was entirely on his shoulders.
He awoke before dawn the next morning to write a note to Sophie. It did not take long, for when one spoke honestly, the words tended to flow.
Dear Miss van Riijn,
As we have previously discussed, I do not believe in God, the hereafter, or anything that cannot be seen or touched. That does not excuse my behavior. You have shown Christian kindness and charity toward my entire household, and my atheism does not excuse me from the rules of common decency.
Even atheists sometimes wish for a talisman to cling to, a shining example that proves there is valor and pure, unalloyed goodness in the world. You are such a person. Sadly, there are times I find it easier to mock goodness rather than be judged small and unworthy in comparison. I have never been particularly proud of myself, but never less so than in the manner I have consistently insulted everything I find admirable about you. I hope you can accept my sincere apology.
Quentin Vandermark
He gave the sealed envelope to Collins to deliver to Sophie as soon as she arrived this morning. He also asked for Pieter to meet him on the mansion’s front portico.
There were no proper washrooms in the house, and he brought his shaving kit and a small mirror to prop up on the balustrade of the front landing. He swirled his shaving brush in the mug of soap, staring at the meadow across from the house. It was surrounded by ancient linden and juniper trees, making this patch of land feel cocooned from the wider world. Were he a spiritual sort, he might even think this land was blessed somehow.
The front door creaked open behind him. “Did you want to see me?”
The hesitation in Pieter’s voice hurt. Quentin began lathering his face but nodded to the morning newspaper folded on the top step. “The professors who will be studying Dierenpark will arrive soon. They’ll want to know what the weather is going to be. Can you read it to me?”
Quentin peered into the small mirror propped on the ledge of the balustrade, carefully drawing the blade across his skin. The newspaper crinkled as Pieter unfolded it, sat on the step beside him, and began reading.
“‘Decreasing cloudiness today, moderate winds. High temperatures in the upper seventies. Tomorrow: expect clear skies.’”
“Clear skies,” he said in a casual tone. “Collins will appreciate the fine weather as he carts all the supplies here.” He rinsed the shaving blade and used a towel to wipe the remaining soap from his face. “The weathermen in Washington wouldn’t have been able to make such predictions if you hadn’t been here to send them the data each morning. I’m proud of you, Pieter.”
Pieter sucked in a breath, and a quick smile flashed on his face. “Miss Sophie showed me how to do it. She knows everything about the weather.”
Sophie again. The admiration in the boy’s voice was apparent, for truly it was hard not to be impressed by her. He’d been trying and failing ever since she first waltzed into his life.
“Why do you like Miss Sophie so much?” he asked. Any man with blood pumping through his veins would find her attractive, but Pieter was too young to notice such things. Was it her cooking? The smile that was never far from her face?
Pieter’s forehead wrinkled in concentration as he fiddled with the shaving brush. When the boy finally spoke, Pieter’s answer stunned him.
“She listens to me like what I say matters.”
His chest squeezed. “And I don’t?”
Pieter shrugged but remained silent.
It was humbling, but Quentin knew the answer. He had never treated Pieter with the kind of respect Sophie showed every person in this household. He loved Pieter, but he didn’t have Sophie’s soft-hearted patience. He was good at lecturing, correcting, berating . . . but treating Pieter as if his opinion mattered? No, he’d never been very good at that.
And he needed to do better.
“Collins and Ratface are making up the beds in preparation for the research teams. They could probably use some help. I heard Ratface threaten to shove Collins into the river if he didn’t help turn the mattresses.”
“That’s not right,” Pieter said.
“It’s not stopping them. Go on up and see if you can get them to calm down.”
Pieter stood, his face unusually solemn. “Above all things, we should try to love one another,” he said. “It’s in the Bible.”
Pieter turned and left, leaving Quentin to stare in stunned disbelief at his retreating back. Since when had his son started spouting off Bible verses like a miniature preacher?
He struggled not to laugh. This was surely Sophie’s doing. He’d warned her about proselytizing to his son, but at least she wasn’t consorting with palm readers or transcendentalists like his grandfather was prone to do.
And if such sappy little maxims helped put Pieter at ease, he wouldn’t quibble. Sophie had made more progress with Pieter in the space of a few weeks than Quentin had managed since the kidnapping last summer. And instead of showing gratitude to Sophie, he’d hurled rice pudding against the wall and mocked her boundless idealism.
He wasn’t ready to return inside the house yet. There was something peaceful out here, and it was soothing to him. Soaking up the sunshine and breathing the fresh green scent of the meadow was a balm on his spirit. So was watching those two little white butterflies flitting about the wisteria vines. How long had it been since he’d stopped to savor the natural beauty of this world?
Before long, Mr. Gilroy came driving up the path in the curricle, the morning’s groceries on the seat beside him. “A telegram has arrived for you,” he said as he passed Quentin on the porch stairs.
Quentin flicked open the card, raising his brow in surprise. Dr. Phineas Clark of the U.S. Weather Bureau had accepted his invitation to come to Dierenpark and would arrive in a week.
Quentin had forgotten about issuing that invitation. The conversation with Mr. Gilroy in the orangery seemed so long ago, before his grandfather had arrived, before his collision with the bees. He was ashamed of the way he’d tattled on Sophie to the Weather Bureau all those weeks ago. He’d just wanted her off his roof and hadn’t cared if he damaged her reputation in the process.
Now he cared. Sophie was a rare find: both innocent and strong at the same time. He feared she would someday be crushed by a hard and cynical world, but so far he had been the only one taking aim at her.
Contrary to all his experience, Sophie didn’t seem enticed by wealth or aggrandizement, only hopes for attracting a more substantial weather station to New Holland.
And he was going to help her get it.
He glanced up at Mr. Gilroy. “Prepare the turret bedroom. We are expecting a guest.”